


The Adventure Of Colonel Carruthers

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [61]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, F/M, Framing Story, Impersonation, Inheritance, M/M, Murder, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 19:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15492903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Someone is killing off members of a noble family in quick order. There is an obvious suspect – but Sherlock finds that all is not as it seems down in rural Wiltshire.





	The Adventure Of Colonel Carruthers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemm/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

There is a growing (and in my view, worrying) tendency amongst some people today to see prison as a place where criminals can somehow be 'reformed', because someone who has committed themselves to a life of crime will _obviously_ change their minds if they are locked up with a lot of other people who have committed themselves to a life of crime. My brother Sherlock was right when he repeated the old saw 'once a crim always a crim'. And this story bears that out, in a particularly vile criminal who fled abroad after he had committed one set of crimes, only to succumb to the temptation for one last hurrah where success seemed guaranteed. Instead he ended up locked in a prison cell and eventually, once certain diplomatic complications had been sorted out, being dispatched into the next world. And rightly so in my opinion.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

The renewal of my friendship with Holmes and my return to Baker Street had been marked by some most shocking cases, particularly the loss of the steamer “Friesland”. Then there was the preternatural happening in Suffolk, and the adventure written up as _The Second Stain_ in which Holmes showed his more human side in helping Lady Hope out of a most difficult situation. It was only two days after that case concluded that our next one arrived, and it brought a new character into our lives at 221B.

There had been a small scandal at our friend Inspector Lestrade's station, when a sergeant had been found to have been running an illicit operation involving alcohol and tobacco, in which he had used his knowledge of police practices to avoid detection. He had only been exposed because Holmes' friend Miss Richards of the Middleton's information agency had asked the detective to investigate an alcohol poisoning in the East End, which had been tracked back to the rogue sergeant. Naturally he was dismissed and gaoled, and it was his replacement who transferred in from a station in Upminster (Essex) who brought us our next case. His name – I kid my readers not - was Sergeant Benedict Fortescue Winstanley-Fotheringham-Hythe; he had just married a Marylebone girl, hence his wish to transfer.

Sergeant Benedict (Lestrade had explained to us that his illustrious father, who had a seat in the Lords, had disinherited him for the heinous act of becoming a policeman hence his wish to be known by his Christian name) called on us one day very soon after taking up his new position. He could not have been physically more different from Lestrade; a tall man with dark blond hair, strikingly handsome to an extent that had Mrs. Hudson (who was bad enough with Mr. Hardland!) covertly mock-swooning after she had brought him up to our rooms.

“I must tell you, gentlemen”, he said in a mellifluous tone, “that the case I lay before you today is not even one that I was personally involved in. My superiors kindly gave me a week off to arrange my moving house and getting married, and this case – or the Upminster element of it – broke during that time. But the doctor here has written of cases that are peculiar in one aspect or another, and something about this case is decidedly strange.”

Holmes pressed his long fingers together and looked across at our guest.

“I am most intrigued”, he said. “Pray continue.”

“The case revolves around the late Mr. Septimus Baverstock and I must start my story some ten years ago”, our guest continued. “Mr. Baverstock was married and his union was blest with seven children, four of whom had survived. These were Abraham, Gideon, Isaiah and Nehemiah. He was possessed of a huge estate in the Wiltshire village that bears his name which, had it been sold and apportioned equally, would have adequately provided for all four sons. Unfortunately – for just about everyone as matters developed – the terms of inheritance were fixed in that virtually the whole estate had to pass to one person and that the current holder of the title got to choose that person, the only limitation being that they must be male and of the blood lineage.”

“That could only lead to trouble”, Holmes observed.

“Indeed”, the sergeant said. “As each boy came of age their father placed at their disposal an identical sum of money. It soon became clear that he was testing his sons so as to decide as to which one should eventually inherit the estate.”

“That was cruel!” I said reprovingly. The sergeant nodded.

“It proved too much for the second son Gideon, who used his money for criminal ends in an attempt to 'get rich quick', as they say. He of course failed, tried to steal from the estate to replace his losses, and when his father found out ended up being banished. He was given a small sum of money - a pay-off, an uncharitable person might have called it – and duly left the country for Australia.”

“But he has returned?” Holmes asked.

“I am coming to that, but yes”, the sergeant said. “The events of the past few weeks have been both sudden and worrying. Two weeks ago Mr. Septimus Baverstock died from a fall down the stairs of his home, where he lived alone except for his servants. He was known to be violently allergic to cats, yet when the local policeman broke into the house a cat rushed past him. Plowright – the local constable – told me that it was common knowledge that the old man did not allow felines in the grounds, let alone the house, and would shoot at any that he saw.”

“You do not believe that his death was an accident?” Holmes asked.

“Three more deaths since suggest it may not have been”, the sergeant said gravely. “First, Mr. Abraham Baverstock was shot whilst waiting for a train at his home railway station of Dunbridge, between Salisbury and Southampton. On a country station in England, would you believe? And just two days after that Mr. Isaiah Baverstock was found dead in his bedroom in London. Someone had left the gas on and he had suffocated.”

“And I suppose that Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock has also met his maker in suspicious circumstances”, I said wryly. To my surprise the sergeant shook his head.

“Nearly”, he said. “He is the one who lived on my old patch, and he had a very narrow escape. He had just moved into lodgings with a Mrs. Keswick when a man called to see him. The visitor's tone was foreign, and the maid thought he said 'Mr. N. Barstock'. Unhappily there was a fellow living in one of the other rooms called Mr. Norman Bostock, and the maid duly directed him to Room Two rather than Room Five. The following day Mr. Bostock was found shot dead in an alley, just off his way to his work as a bank clerk.”

“And Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock?” Holmes asked.

“He has gone to his late father's house in Wiltshire where he has a round-the-clock police guard.”

“That will not stop a determined killer”, Holmes observed. “You said that Mr. Gideon Baverstock was back in the country?”

The sergeant nodded.

“We checked the shipping offices and one of them confirmed that he left Melbourne a couple of months ago”, the sergeant said. “He was recorded as a passenger on a ship that docked at Plymouth just days before his father's death. And he had been staying in the village when his father died.”

The last man standing, I thought.

“Naturally he was asked to come in for questioning”, the sergeant continued. “He said that his father had sent him a telegram from England asking him to come home, though when he went to see him, the old man denied having done any such thing. Though to be fair his father's memory was going, so the old man's valet said, and when they questioned Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock later he admitted – reluctantly, Plowright said – that his father had indeed wanted a reconciliation, though there had been no mention of a telegram.”

“And Mr. Gideon disappeared soon afterwards?” I hazarded. The sergeant nodded.

“His landlady in the village said he claimed that someone had broken into his room, but I think that was just a cover story”, he said. “Of course he has not been seen since.”

“What are Mr. Nehemiah's plans?” Holmes asked.

“To sell up and get out as quickly as possible”, the sergeant said. “Unfortunately a clause in the will means that he does not actually inherit until exactly a month after his father's death, so he still has at least two weeks to go.”

(Such clauses had become a feature of wills in the past century, particularly given the excessive number of train crashes that there were in those days).

“And to stay alive”, I put in. 

Holmes seemed lost in thought. We both waited for him to speak.

“I think it would be a good idea to interview the landlady in Upminster – Mrs. Keswick, you called her. Then we might go down to Wiltshire. There is no immediate hurry if Mr. Nehemiah cannot sell up for two weeks, as you have said.”

“Unless his brother gets to him first”, I pointed out.

“Oh, I fully expect there to be an attempt on Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock's life over the next two weeks”, Holmes said casually. 

“What?” the sergeant almost yelled.

“Calm down, sergeant”, Holmes said soothingly. “I doubt very much that it will succeed. No, our first priority is to see poor Mrs. Keswick.”

“Why do you call her 'poor'?” I asked, curiously. He looked askance at me.

“Would you wish to stay in a boarding-house where people get murdered?” he asked.

He made a good point.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Sergeant Benedict arranged for us to visit Mrs. Keswick two days after his call. Unfortunately when I came out of my room that particular morning, Holmes looked terrible.

“You have gastroenteritis”, I said after a quick examination. “Lots of fluids, no alcohol, and lots of rest.”

He tried to croak something at me but his voice had all but gone. Instead he pointed feebly to the calendar.

“I know that we were due to meet Mrs Keswick today but you cannot go in this state”, I said firmly. “No!” when he looked set to protest. “Mrs. Hudson can bring you up plenty of liquids, and you can write down the questions you were going to ask Mrs. Keswick. And yes, I will make sure I put them _exactly_ as you write them.”

He smiled weakly at me and gestured for a notepad and pencil. I placed both by his side and went downstairs to tell our gracious landlady that she had an invalid on her hands, at least until I returned.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mrs. Emily Keswick's house lay in Athelstan Mews, some little way south of Euston Station. It was a well-to-do area, and I noted at once the large 'Rooms To Let' sign in the window of her house, number seventeen. A maid admitted me and I was quickly shown up to the lady's room. 

Mrs. Keswick was clearly a lady of quality, as she refrained from any disappointment that it was only I who was visiting her, not the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself. After she had expressed suitable wishes for his swift recovery, I turned to the questions that Holmes had written for me.

“These are the things that my friend wished to ask you”, I said. “First, he wanted as complete a description as possible of the two men involved in the case, as well as the potential murderer.”

She shuddered at that word.

“It is difficult”, she said (thankfully she had the grace to speak slowly, so I could note down her words) “because I saw all of them relatively briefly. Mr. Bostock had moved in only the week before, I recall. He was young, well-presented and eager to please. The only slight concern I had was that one of his references had been from his time in the United States, but the other was British and he had been fully prepared to wait for me to telegraph and check up on the foreign one. He was quite friendly; he would talk about anything and everything. He mentioned once that he was courting a young lady in the area, but he did not say her name.”

She let me catch up with my notes before continuing. 

“Mr. Baverstock was quite the opposite”, she said, with a faint shudder. “I would not go as far to call him rude _per se_ , but he seemed to have very little time for anyone. He was about forty years of age and seemed to suffer from arthritis.”

I looked up from my notes, distracted.

“ _Seemed_ to suffer?” I asked. She nodded. 

“He always shuffled everywhere”, she said, “but one day I happened to hear him coming down the stairs when he might have thought me to be out, and he was walking quite normally. It is probably unchristian of me to say it, but I personally think that he played it up so that he could be more miserable!”

I smiled at that, and finished writing.

“The man who called was young, and spoke very little”, she said, “although Betty was sure that he had a foreign accent. I remember that it was a hot day, yet he was covered up with layer after layer which was odd. And he had a strong tan.”

“How do you know that if he was covered up?” I queried. 

“That was the other thing that struck me”, she said. “Betty was cleaning the front room and spoke to him out of the big bay window. I saw him from my own room, which also faces out onto the street. Before he left he took his gloves off and his hands were quite red. He was thin and I suppose upon reflection that I may be presuming his youth, although he certainly moved very quickly. Betty thought that he was young, though.”

“So Mr. Bostock was not in his room at the time?” I asked. 

“I had thought him to be, but he must have gone out without me seeing him.”

She sounded aggravated that one of her tenants had 'slipped his leash'. I smiled as I caught up with my notes.

“Did Mr. Bostock and Mr. Baverstock ever meet?” I asked next.

“Not to my knowledge”, she said. “My tenants tend to prefer to have their meals served in their own rooms, and the layout of the building is such that Mr. Baverstock had his own exit at the back into Æthelflaed Mews which he seemed to prefer to the front door. They certainly had nothing in common except, unfortunately for one of them, their similar names.”

I wrote that down, then hesitated.

“Mrs. Keswick”, I said, “I would like to thank you for your answers to my friend's questions thus far. He had one more question, but he asked me to forewarn you that it is of a slightly personal nature. If you find it intrusive or just do not wish to answer it, please say so.”

“Of course”, she said, looking nervously at me.

“How has business been since Mr. Baverstock moved out?” I asked.

For an awful moment I thought she was about to break down in tears but she managed to hold things together, though it took an effort. 

“Awful!” she admitted. “Three of my four other tenants have moved out and I am sure that Miss Foreman is only staying because she cannot afford anything else, or at least anything that is so near to her work at the railway station.”

“Thank you”, I said. “I promise that we will keep you informed as to developments in the case.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I reported my findings to Holmes when I returned,. He had only one request arising from my visit and it was much what I had expected; I was to send a telegram to Miss Richards, asking her to covertly assist Mrs. Keswick until the fuss had died down. Mercifully the London journalist then as now had an attention span marginally shorter than that of the average goldfish, so that lady at least might soon be over her own problems.

Holmes' recovery was slower than I had hoped, and when I returned some four days later after having had to travel all the way into Surrey to see one rich (and obnoxious) patient, it was to find that he had fallen asleep in the fireside chair. I smiled and pulled up the blanket which had slipped down off of him, and stoked up the fire. Then I turned round – and saw something on the floor which made my heart sink.

Moving quietly I went downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson if any visitors had come to our apartment since I had left that morning. On being answered in the negative my blood duly boiled, but I thanked her and went quietly back upstairs to where my friend was still sleeping. He continued to doze for another hour, and I was finishing a late tea when he finally awoke. I went across and pressed the bell.

“Mrs. Hudson has been keeping something warm for you”, I said. “Doubtless she will bring it up in a few minutes.”

He looked around the room for a moment before smiling and approaching the table. I waited until he had sat down before pouncing. 

“Did you have a good day?” I asked nonchalantly.

“I will feel better when I can get on with this case again”, he muttered. 

“Where did you go?”

He froze and looked at me guiltily.

“Pardon?”

“Where did you go? I know that you went out today, despite my telling you not to. There is a small mud-patch on the carpet that was not there this morning, and Mrs. Hudson tells me that you had no visitors.”

He stared at the tablecloth, clearly ashamed at having been caught out.

“I went to see someone who Miss Richards found for me”, he muttered, still not looking at me. “I needed him to do something before going down to Wiltshire.”

It was rare indeed that I felt superior to the great detective, and I am ashamed to say that I did milk the moment somewhat. I stared at him for a while before quitting the table and taking my seat by the fire.

“I wish that you had trusted me”, I said quietly. “I do not mind you getting out for a short walk perhaps, but the fact that you did so without clearing it with me.....”

I was unaware that he had left the table and moved to beside me, and I almost jumped at his appearance. 

“I would trust you with my life”, he said quietly. “But I had to do this. I am sorry, John.”

It was perhaps the first time that he had used my Christian name, and not a happy one. I huffed in annoyance.

“I understand”, I said stiffly. “But I am going with you to Wiltshire, and if you show any sign of being unwell then it is straight back to London for you!”

“I promise to follow my doctor's orders”, he smiled.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered with Holmes' evening meal (not one of the maids, I noticed, which meant that she was keeping an eye on him). She was obviously aware that there was an unusual tension in the room, but God bless the woman she refrained from commenting on it. She loaded up her tray with my dirty dishes and left us alone.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It was two more days before I judged Holmes well enough to travel. I had expected him to push to go sooner, but my catching him out seemed to have shocked him into submission and he did not utter a word of complaint.

Getting to the village of Baverstock from London reminded me of the wonders of the modern age. I had experienced stagecoach travel but once in my life, and such a bone-shaking experience should in my opinion, be restricted to fairgrounds and museums. And that was with the 'luxury' of an inside seat! I wondered idly what would one day replace the trustworthy steam train, as we sped along the line from Waterloo to the cathedral city of Salisbury. Hopefully not one of those strange 'horseless carriages' or 'automobiles', which I had read a certain Mr. Karl Benz was now manufacturing in Germany. Allowing just about any Tom, Dick or Harry out onto the ill-maintained roads seemed to me a recipe for disaster!

Holmes looked a lot better today though I silently determined that he was still resting once we got back to London (the late Mary had been right; I was a complete mother-hen at times!). We changed at Salisbury for a local train and got out two stops later at Dinton, the nearest station to Baverstock. From there it was a gentle cab ride through a couple of miles of pleasant Wiltshire countryside until we arrived at the gates of Baverstock Hall. A policeman was standing guard there and I was a little concerned that he did not even look up from his newspaper until we were almost upon him. If this was the level of 'protection' that Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock had been given then he might well not live to come into his inheritance. 

There was a second and more alert policeman at the house door which was a little better and we were soon shown into the main room where a third policeman was trying to calm a clearly over-excited middle-aged gentleman. The policeman looked up as we entered and I could swear that there was gratitude in that look.

“Constable George Plowright”, he said. “You must be the gentlemen from London. Thank the Lord you are both here!”

“Has something happened?” I asked anxiously.

“My brother is in the village!” the little man almost shrieked. “He is less than a mile from here, and these policemen do nothing!”

“English law does tend to frown on its officers arresting people merely because they are under suspicion”, Holmes said airily. “Some trifling nonsense called Magna Carta, if I recall correctly. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock?”

“Not for much longer if I go and get murdered”, the man grumbled. “You must be the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes that I have heard so much about.”

“A man has been reported asking questions about this gentleman in the great house”, Constable Plowright explained. “Fred down at the Dog & Duck came and told me; he thought it was important when the fellow came two days in a row. We posted a man in the place there today but he didn't show.”

Waiting in a pub all day, I thought wryly. Nice work if you can get it.

“So your brother is in the area?” Holmes said to Mr. Baverstock. “Excellent!”

The man stared back at him in confusion.

“How precisely is that _excellent_ , pray?” he asked testily. 

“Tell me”, Holmes said, “is it true that in the event of your death the estate then goes to your brother Gideon?”

The man hesitated before answering.

“Yes”, he said. 

“But?” Holmes prompted.

“The rules of the estate allowed my father to bequeath the whole thing, except for minor bequests to servants, to just one of his sons”, Mr. Baverstock explained. “Father and the family lawyer had to make the choice between them, but if there was only one son left then he got everything.”

“And the estate has to be kept in the Baverstock family?” Holmes asked.

“Of course”, the man said, clearly confused. Holmes smiled at him. 

“I must be frank with you, Mr. Baverstock”, he said. “In cases like this, the would-be murderer has nearly all the advantages. He can pick the time and place of his attack, whilst those defending the target must be on their guard all the time and everywhere. I had thought our only advantage was that the attack would have to come before the month is up, and that still leaves us over a week. But from what you have told me, we can now force your attacker's hand.”

“How so?”, Mr. Baverstock asked, clearly puzzled. Holmes turned to the constable. 

“In a conversation in the local tavern, which you should ensure is overheard, you will tell a fellow officer that the two gentlemen who have arrived today have brought news of Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock's son Oliver, recently arrived from his boarding-school to London, and that the new lord of the manor is planning to use the powers of the estate to will everything on to him”, Holmes said. “You will say that Mr. Baverstock is expecting the family lawyer down tomorrow afternoon, and that since his son is safely in hiding he himself will be perfectly safe once the document is signed. The son will then immediately sell the estate once the period is up. I have no doubt that if that man at the inn is indeed your brother he will be maintaining a presence in the village, and the news will swiftly reach him. He will have but one night to react.”

He turned back to our host.

“This involves no danger for you, sir”, he said. “You must spend the night locked away at the back of the house. I will pretend to be you in your bed, with the window slightly open. I will be armed, as will the doctor who will stand guard outside the window.....”

“No!” Mr. Baverstock said, much to my surprise. “This is my brother trying to kill me, and in my own damn house. You may hide behind the screen in my room, but I will be in my own bed. _And armed!”_

I expected Holmes to object to that, but to my surprise he nodded. 

“One must respect the ancient tenet that an Englishman's home is his castle”, he said. “Very well. Though I doubt that a gun will be needed. I do not think your attacker would risk alerting the servants with a gunshot.”

“We shall see!” Mr. Baverstock said grimly.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was fortunate that the laundry-room at the back of the house offered an excellent view of the slightly open bedroom window so that I had some shelter for my vigil. I knew that one of the other constables was on the roof watching for anyone approaching the house, and that a second one was patrolling the grounds, Constable Plowright being inside the house in the room adjoining Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. 

Idiot, I thought, as the patrolling constable was caught in the moonlight, albeit against the wall next to the one with the open window. I stared again at that window; it was on the first floor but the house was covered in ivy, and I knew, having tried it earlier that it would indeed support the weight of a man..... 

My musings were interrupted by the sound of a sudden gunshot from inside the house and a cry of pain from the open window. I gasped. How on earth had the man gotten in? I tore round to the front door, opening it with the key I had been given earlier and racing up the stairs two at a time until I reached Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. And there, lying prone and bleeding on the floor, was... a policeman?

I stared in confusion. Next to me, Holmes sighed.

“He did not have a gun, Mr. Baverstock”, he said patiently.

“He could have had a knife”, the man said petulantly. “I have the right to defend myself!”

Constable Plowright burst into the room followed quickly by his two fellow policemen. I frowned. I had been sure there had been only three officers keeping guard, so who was lying on the floor?

“The attacker dressed himself as a policeman”, Holmes explained, pointing to the body on the floor. He was still breathing, though it was very ragged. Holmes gently turned him over, and Mr. Baverstock nodded.

“Gideon. That is him.”

“Well, that just about wraps it up!”, Constable Kennedy beamed. “Let's get him down to the station.”

“May I?” Holmes asked, gesturing to the handcuffs the young constable had produced. He looked puzzled, but handed them over.

“I suppose so, sir”, he said. 

Holmes went to move back to the prone man, and in doing so he passed Mr. Baverstock. There was a sudden click, and our host was handcuffed. All three policemen stared at Holmes as if he had gone mad.

“You want me to arrest the _victim?_ ” Constable Plowright gasped. Holmes smiled.

“Oh no, constable”, he said. “I want you to take in a _killer_. This man has killed four times and tonight attempted a fifth murder. Gentlemen, may I present a man of many names, two of the latest of which were Mr. Norman Bostock and Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock.”

I do not think that I have ever seen a transformation such as the one which befell the handcuffed man's features. He went from puzzled captive to enraged bull, and it took the strength of all three officers to pin him down. A second set of cuffs had to be forced onto him before he submitted.

“I was so bloody close!” he snarled. “But at least I put an end to a line of useless toffs like this bunch!”

Holmes shook his head and leaned over to the prone man who, to my surprise, got up without any help. Only then did I recognize the red spot on his white shirt for fake blood. He grinned at us both. 

“I do not let potential suspects wield guns in my cases”, Holmes said to the prisoner. “At least, not unless I have made certain that they only carry blanks.”

The prisoner screamed in frustration and tried to launch himself at Holmes, and the policemen had to exert some effort In order to drag him away. I stared after them all in amazement.

“Come”, Holmes said with a smile, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I think the soon-to-be new owner of this ancestral pile might be treating us all to a drink.”

“Or four!” I muttered.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“First, I must reveal the identity of your 'Mr. Norman Bostock'”, Holmes said. “He is none other than Colonel Horatio Carruthers, wanted for at least three major robberies across the North of England. When his home country became too hot for him he decamped to the United States, where he lived a quiet life on the proceeds of his crimes – until he chanced upon the hapless Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock. Learning of that evil will, he saw an excellent chance to inherit the family estate and become rich beyond his wildest dreams.”

We were sat downstairs, each of us needing a stiff drink after I had given Mr. Gideon Baverstock a quick check-up. The man's shirt was ruined, but somehow I suspected that he did not mind that much.

“The colonel – not a real one of course - knows that Mr. Gideon here is abroad, and that if there were to be any suspicious deaths then he would have an obvious motive”, Holmes went on. “He fakes a telegram from Mr. Septimus Baverstock recalling the wayward son, and once the latter is back in England only _then_ do the deaths start. He is also careful to ensure they are only carried out when Mr. Gideon does not have an alibi. Thus Septimus, Abraham and Isaiah Baverstock are dispatched into the next world.”

“On the pretext of keeping his 'friend' safe, he persuades the man to move lodgings, himself taking a room at the same establishment. Quite probably they were to move again soon afterwards, except the colonel's plans involved moving his 'friend' into the next world along with the rest of his family and then assuming his identity. His choice of name was quite deliberate, as avoiding suspicion necessitated it to seem that 'Mr. Norman Bostock' was killed in error for 'Mr. Nehemiah Baverstock'. Hence a fourth Baverstock has been dispatched from this world, his identity having been assumed by the colonel. He is now but one killing away from a fortune.”

“I was particularly struck by Mrs. Keswick's excellent descriptions of her two lodgers as being so very different”, he said. “It sounded like we were almost being encouraged to take in those differences, a trick I have seen used before. So I found Mr. Gideon here and persuaded him to visit the village to ask a lot of questions. As I had guessed it would, news of that quickly reached Mr. Bostock. My offer of a trap seemed an excellent conclusion to his schemes; he could shoot dead the last obstacle to his schemes and he would be home free. Instead of which, he is looking to the long drop at the end of a short rope.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, our host said. “It has been more of an experience returning to the Old Country than I would ever have expected, and I look forward to returning to New South Wales as soon as the whole estate is sorted out.”

“And now we must adjourn to a train back to London”, Holmes said with a sigh, “or my doctor will be laying down the law to me about over-exerting myself. He is such a tyrant, you know!

I scowled at him.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

In fact there were some further complications as Colonel Carruthers had obtained American citizenship and Anglo-American relations were difficult enough at the time. It took some two and a half years to sort out, but eventually he was shipped back to the United States and shortly afterwards dispatched into Hell. And the world was a better place without him.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
